


everybody wants to rule the world

by dashieundomiel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Humor, I hope, Multi, Time Travel, barely crack or barely not crack? you decide, modeling industry is bad, or really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashieundomiel/pseuds/dashieundomiel
Summary: Instead of dying, Enjolras gets transported to the twenty-first century. It's not quite what he expects. In fact, he has to find work as a model to make ends meet, and lives in a flat with three other guys who don't know Rousseau from Robespierre. But apart from learning the ropes of twenty-first century life and everything that's happened in the last 180 or so years, he has one burning question: did anyone else survive?
Relationships: there's some implied but i don't actually want them in the tags
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. enjolras's astonishments

Something cold and wet dripped down his nose. Another drop hit his eyelid, and he blinked awake at the unpleasant sensation. 

He was _awake_.

Enjolras jolted upright and stumbled to his feet. He was in some sort of alley or side street, though he had no memory of arriving there. In fact, it didn’t look like any place he’d seen. He wiped a raindrop off his cheek and blinked away the fuzziness in his head. It was drizzling lightly and overcast, not the clear blue sky he last remembered. He couldn’t see barricades anywhere, nor anything familiar, for that matter. Had he been taken? But no one was nearby, at least not that he could see. 

A passerby carrying an umbrella walked past the entrance to the side street, and he instinctively retreated into the shadows. Was anyone looking for him? It would not do for anyone to see him like this, clearly just come from the barricades. He felt his pockets and remembered he had no weapon, though at least the rain was cleaning the smell of gunpowder off his hands.

But he could not hear the sounds of gunshots or cannons, which suggested that the fighting was far away, or that the fighting was over. Most likely the latter, he thought dully. It didn’t sound as though there was a disturbance. People were walking about, not huddled in their homes. He could hear talking in the street. And there was something else he sensed—something wrong, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. 

Wherever he was, he was alive, and in order to stay that way he needed to keep his head. With the fighting over, they would surely be searching for the leaders of the insurrection. He needed a plan. He exhaled slowly to collect himself and took stock of his clothes. 

He quickly realized that it would be difficult to blend in. No hat, no cravat, coat torn at the shoulders, and there was blood on his trousers and sleeves from his execution of the murderer. He reached into his pockets and was surprised to find his possessions still intact. A purse with the money still inside, the note he had left with his father’s address, and the watch Combeferre had given him for his birthday last year. It was still running, but the time read as twelve, though it was obviously late afternoon. He frowned. The watch must have run down while he’d been asleep. How long _had_ he been out? Something nagged at the back of his mind, like something important he’d forgotten, but he pushed it away. There were enough things to worry about already.

The bloodstains on his trousers might be mistaken for mud, he figured, and if he kept his hands in his pockets the stains and tears would not be too visible. Raising his collar might hide his bare neck, though he sorely regretted his lack of a hat. He unbuttoned his coat to examine the state of his shirt and waistcoat when it hit him.

There was no blood at all on the front of his clothes. 

He had been _shot_ , he realized with shocked realization, the memory coming back with full force. He should be dead. How had he survived the firing squad? In disbelief he slipped his hand beneath his collar and found nothing but unblemished skin, not even a scar. No bullet holes in his clothes, either—he checked to see if they had been repaired, but there wasn’t even the slightest sign of stitching, as though it had never happened.

As though it had never happened.

But he _remembered_ being shot, he thought, bewildered. He remembered facing the firing squad with Grantaire, the sound of their discharge and sudden flash of light and smoke. It was impossible. But it was undeniable. There wasn’t a scratch on him.

Feeling faint, he leaned against the wall, the oppressive wrongness filling his ears like he was drowning in it. 

Then he realized what it was—the wrongness. It was the noise. This was not what Paris sounded like. It was a rumbling deep in the ground, like an oncoming storm beneath his feet. And surrounding on all sides, a sound like a great rushing wind. It was deafening. 

Slowly, he moved into the light to peer out at the street, and almost fell back again at what he saw.

Metallic horseless carriages rushed past with breathtaking speed, followed by massive horseless omnibuses. And oddly enough, a number of people on what appeared to be _draisiennes_ , which struck Enjolras as rather absurd even in his shocked stupor. People milled about in odd clothing, and some of the people in trousers, he noticed, were women. In fact, there was hardly a long skirt in sight. Not to mention barely any hats at all. This was certainly not Paris, nor did it look like any other place on Earth that he’d seen or read about.

Was he then, dead? Could this be the life that awaited after death? It fit no description of heaven or hell he’d ever heard, but who was to say what truth there was in such things? Though he hadn’t actually expected there to be anything awaiting after death, he was certainly prepared to admit ignorance. It would explain his miraculous lack of injury, among other things. 

He couldn't afford to be sad about it, he decided. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen it coming. But he was surprised to find himself feeling a slight pang of regret. There were people he would miss, people that he didn’t expect to miss. His landlady. The bookseller down the street from his flat. Even that idiot, Blondeau. His father, who he hoped would not grieve too much. It seemed strange that at one point he had seen them all for the last time and didn’t give it a second thought. And his friends—that ache was more acute. More than friends, they were like brothers. Did he say goodbye to any of them? He supposed not, they had all been preoccupied. He wished he had. To never see Combeferre or Courfeyrac or any of them again was almost more than he could bear. 

But did it have to be that way? If they were all dead, surely it was not beyond the bounds of reason to think that they might be here too. A spark of hope rose in his chest for the first time. But how to find them? There was no signpost, no heavenly voice telling him what to do. Death was proving to be rather confusing indeed. 

He looked out to the busy street, wondering if he dared venture out. It was intimidating, he admitted to himself. The whole scene seemed entirely foreign, and he knew innately that this was somewhere he did not belong, though where he _did_ belong he could not say. But he couldn’t very well stay here, either.

Was this a test?

The rain had stopped. Only one way to find out. He buttoned his coat resolutely, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title doesn't actually have anything to do with the fic, it's just on my playlist for it. if you come up with a better one please let me know


	2. the consequences of having met an agent

The horseless carriages must be some sort of steam engine, he figured, like the ones Combeferre had once told him about. They all seemed to know to stop and start at the same time, so Enjolras followed a small group of people to cross the street. No one gave him a second glance. Blending in was easier than he thought. 

Regardless of what kind of place this might be, his first course of action should be to find something to eat and a place to sleep. He was a little annoyed that hunger was something one had to deal with even in death. He scanned the street. There were no signs advertising an inn or rooming, but a dining establishment called McDonald’s seemed busy. Food would do for now. He could find a place to sleep later.

The restaurant was packed when he entered, so following the people in front of him, he got in the queue. He was impressed by the realistic paintings of food on the walls, though it didn’t appear to be particularly upscale.

He patted his pocket—his purse was still there, luckily. How much did things cost here? Did one still have to pay for food in the afterlife? That didn’t seem entirely fair. But seeing as it seemed to be neither heaven nor hell, perhaps this afterlife was for those who were neither good nor evil. 

He looked with interest at the strange people around him. He counted several women wearing trousers, and one wearing a very short skirt. All wore their hair down. He worried for a moment that this was a brothel, but from his (admittedly very limited) experience it didn’t appear to be; no one seemed to find this unusual, much less titillating. 

On of the women in a group at a nearby table caught him staring; he quickly averted his eyes. He heard another woman laugh and whisper something he couldn’t make out, which was met by more laughing. He felt his face heat up.

The women left the table and filed past him to the door, while he kept his eyes fixed to the floor. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up quickly.

It was the short skirted woman. “You dropped something,” she said, and shoved a slip of paper into his hands.

Written on it was a series of numbers with no explanation. When he looked up to tell her he hadn’t dropped anything, she had already left.

He looked at the numbers again. Perhaps she had mistaken him for someone else. Or perhaps it was some sort of message, or a clue. Figuring it might be important, he put it in his pocket to decipher later.

A man at another table was talking loudly to himself and holding something to his ear. No one else seemed to notice his odd behavior. It struck Enjolras as strange that this man wasn’t cured of his obvious illness, after all, hadn’t his wounds been healed? Perhaps it didn’t apply to diseases of the mind. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but then again, neither did the hunger.

When he chanced to look back, the man was staring at him intently. Enjolras looked away. The man still stared at him. It was beginning to make him feel uneasy. Did he suspect something? Was he not supposed to be here? Deciding the food wasn’t worth it, he made for the door. He barely made it outside when he felt a hand grab his shoulder.

Instinctively, he grabbed the wrist and twisted it. The man swore and leapt back. 

“Is that how you always greet people?” He spat, rubbing his wrist.

Enjolras crossed his arms. “Is that how you always introduce yourself?” Enjolras said, crossing his arms.

“Fair enough.” He stuck out his hand. “Sorry for frightening you. Lucas Lazare.”

Enjolras didn’t take it. “What do you want?”

He smiled a fake, wide smile. “I’m an agent for Infinity Model Management. Have you ever considered a career in modeling?”

Enjolras furrowed his brow in confusion. “Modeling...for portraits?”

“Sure, we book shoots for ad campaigns, as well as runway modeling.”

Enjolras didn’t know what that meant, but figured the man was probably trying to get him to have a portrait done or something like that. “No, thank you.” He turned to walk away. 

“Wait!” The man had a note of desperation in his voice such that Enjolras felt compelled to turn around. “Just...listen, if you come in and hear me out, I’ll pay for your meal.”

He was hungry. Besides, hearing him out couldn’t hurt. Enjolras sighed. “Fine.”

Lucas bought him a sandwich and a water, the only drink option on the menu he recognized. He watched him put the money back in his wallet with interest. 

“What kind of currency is that?” Enjolras asked.

Lucas gave him an odd look. “Euro. Are you not from around here?”

“No.” Enjolras wondered if he’d missed some kind of orientation for this place. How did everyone else seem to know everything?

“Well, your accent is very good,” Lucas said pleasantly. “Where are you from?”

“Paris.”

“Paris? What do you mean, you’re from here?” Lucas said, looking confused.

“Here?” It was Enjolras’s turn to look confused.

“Yeah, you said you’re from Paris.”

“I am. This isn’t Paris.”

Lucas threw up his arms. “Then where do you think you are?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said slowly. “I assumed it was some kind of afterlife.”

“So you think you’re _dead_ ,” said Lucas, giving him another strange look. “Right.”

“Of course.” Enjolras began to worry. “Aren’t you?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” said Lucas, looking disturbed. “And why do you think you’re dead?”

“Because I was shot by a firing squad,” Enjolras said. “Can’t get much more dead than that.”

Lucas blinks. “Well, you don’t look like you’ve been shot.”

“Exactly. How else would you explain it?”

Lucas opened his mouth, and on second thought, closed it. “Why do you think you were shot by a firing squad?” He said, looking as if he’d very much rather say something else.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, unsure if he’d said too much. “I was part of the insurrection,” he said finally.

“What insurrection?”

“The one yesterday, obviously.”

“I didn’t hear about any insurrection.”

Enjolras frowned. The man must be a fool. “At General Lamarque’s funeral? On June fifth?” He paused. “What day is it?”

“June sixth. Who’s General Lamarque?”

“Who’s—surely you must have heard of him. The representative of the people? He died of the cholera on June first.”

Lucas shook his head.

Enjolras sighed. “He was a general under Bonaparte?”

“Really? Which one?” 

“What do you mean, _which one_?”

Lucas shrugged. “History isn’t exactly my specialty, but I thought there were only three.”

“Only—” Enjolras stopped short, perturbed. “Three Bonapartes?”

“Yeah, and the last one was emperor at the end of the nineteenth century, and I don't think anyone from then is still alive.”

Try as he might, Enjolras couldn’t quite process this statement. He stared hard at Lucas. ”The end of the nineteenth century? We’re not even halfway through.”

Lucas stared at him, then assumed an air of realization. “Am I being pranked? Is someone filming this?”

Enjolras shook his head. “The end of the nineteenth century…” 

“It’s 2017. Definitely the twenty-first century,” Lucas said. 

Enjolras tore his mind away from the three Bonapartes. “Well, yesterday it was the nineteenth,” he said sharply.

“It most certainly was not!” Lucas exclaimed in alarm.

Enjolras rose in anger. “Thank you very much for the opportunity, but I’ve heard enough. If anyone here is playing a joke it must be you.” He turned to leave.

Predictably, Lucas grabbed his arm. “Okay, okay—fine. Maybe yesterday was the nineteenth century. Just listen. Please.”

“Then stop touching me,” Enjolras said coldly. 

Lucas let go and raised his hands to show he wouldn’t. “Sorry.”

Enjolras sat again, glowering. Lucas had the good sense to recoil a little.

“I’ll admit it’s all very convincing,” Lucas said placatingly. “The…funny clothes, the history thing. The way you talk. And you seem, well, very serious about it. If it’s a prank, well done.”

Enjolras stared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“But surely you can’t really be…you know.”

“I don’t.“

“You know. A time traveler. From the nineteenth century.”

Time traveler. The idea rang a bell. Quite suddenly, he remembered—a novel Prouvaire had once described to him, about a man in the eighteenth century who wakes up in the twenty-fifth. In Paris. In a utopia. He remembered thinking it was a fascinating concept, and always meant to read it. The copy Prouvaire gave him must still be on his shelf—but no, too late now.

Absurdly, he stifles a laugh. And why not? If that man could wake up in the twenty-fifth century, why couldn’t he, Enjolras, wake up in the twenty-first? It would be a shorter jump, temporally speaking. It was a ridiculous idea. It had been a ridiculous day.

But surely he hadn’t slept for nearly two hundred years. He touched his face and perceived it was still young, his hair was still blond, not white; for all appearances he was still twenty-six years old.

So all those years had passed without him. As if he had been preserved in his current state for centuries, or simply blinked out of existence one day and reappeared hundreds of years later, exactly the same.

“I am a time traveler,” he said to himself. He looked Lucas in the eyes.

“I knew it,” Lucas said in hushed tones.

Practicality came back to him. If it really was the twenty-first century, that complicated things. “What year is it, again?”

“2017. What year did you think it was?” Lucas asked. 

“1832.” Enjolras crossed his arms. “How do I know you’re not mad? I saw you talking to yourself earlier.”

“What? Oh--you mean my phone.” He took out the little metal rectangle that Enjolras had seen earlier. It lit up to show a picture, and the date, June sixth. “I was talking to—never mind that. How do I know _you’re_ not crazy?”

Enjolras ignored this, examining the phone. “But why were you talking to it?”

“I wasn’t talking to it. I was talking to someone else, through it. It’s like...I don’t know, did they have telegraphs in 1832?”

The word sparked a memory of Combeferre telling him how messages might be relayed quickly over long distances using electromagnets. “So it’s a communication device.”

“Right.”

Enjolras considered this. “Is time travel common in the twenty-first century?”

“Well, no,” Lucas admitted, “but I’ve seen lots of movies about it.”

Enjolras looked out the window, where the steam engines rushed past. “You’re not joking? It’s 2017?”

“Yeah. And you’re really not kidding? You’re from 1832?”

Enjolras nodded. 

“But that means you don’t have anywhere to go,” Lucas said, an odd glint in his eye. 

Enjolras regarded him warily. “It appears so.”

“You and I are both very lucky people, Monsieur…?”

“Oh. Yes. Enjolras. Alexandre Enjolras.”

“I’m a talent scout for a modeling agency, and I think you’ve got tremendous promise.” He handed Enjolras a card. 

Enjolras examined it. “What exactly does this mean, modeling?” 

“Well, uh…” Lucas scratched his head, trying to figure out the best way to explain it. “People take pictures of you and use it to sell things.”

“And it’s a job? You make money?”

“Oh, of course. Lots of perks, too. Travel, parties, accommodation...you’d be set. Like I said, you’re lucky you found me. What other choice do you have?”

“I don’t know how to do it.”

“That’s fine. We’ll teach you.”

Enjolras sighed internally, but he was right. What other choice did he have? “When can I start?”

“Fantastic! Considering the circumstances I’d better just take you down to the office right now. Like, now.”

“What circumstances?” Enjolras asked, but Lucas took out his phone and stared at it for a few moments. 

“Okay, I have a car coming in five minutes.” He put the phone away. “Look, you’d better not tell anyone else about the time travel thing. This is a pretty skeptic age, and if you go around telling people, they’re liable to think you’re crazy.”

“Well, what if you tell them?”

“They’ll think I’m crazy, too, or that we’re pulling some elaborate hoax. So just don’t say anything about it. Besides, if you’re really a time traveler, the government might come after you. You know, to run experiments or something.”

Enjolras wondered if the government would still care about the survivor of some long ago rebellion. With any luck, it was no longer the same government. Nevertheless, it would be prudent to avoid run-ins. He nodded. “So what should I say?”

“We’ll come up with some backstory for you. Like…you were in a cult and were never allowed to see the outside world until today.”

“Is that believable?” If that sort of thing was common in the twenty-first century, it was certainly an odd place.

“I don’t know,” admitted Lucas, “but it’s better than being a time traveler.”

“Very well.”

Lucas looked at his phone. “Car’s here,” he announced. “Come on.”

He followed Lucas out of the restaurant. He hailed one of the carriages and motioned for Enjolras to get in, which he did with some trepidation.

The carriage (car, Lucas had said) moved more smoothly and quickly than any other he had ridden in. He looked out the window with great interest. So this was the future.

Seeing that it was Paris, he tried to find something recognizable. He found nothing, though occasionally felt a strange pull of familiarity. He suddenly felt very alone.

The car stopped in front of a nondescript building. Lucas ushered Enjolras through the door and up several flights of stairs, to a room that was mostly bare save several large portraits on the wall and a desk where a haggard, balding man sat.

The man sighed when he saw them. “Lucas, I told you we can’t take anyone else on. It’s bad enough as it is.”

Lucas held up a hand. “I know, I know. But look—I really think he might make it. International markets. Runway.”

The other man looked at Enjolras critically. “He’s a little short,” he said.

“No he’s not. Here, stand up straight,” he said to Enjolras, who obliged. “He’s got an excellent look. Androgyny is very in right now.”

The balding man got up and circled around Enjolras, who felt rather like a prize piece of livestock. “That hair natural?”

“Yes,” he said, a little offended by the question.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Really? You don’t look it.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Enjolras, who was liking this man less and less.

He stopped and addressed Lucas: “Look, if it was better times I’d sign him. But we’re barely staying afloat as it is.”

“You told me it would take a miracle to save this company—well, here it is!” Lucas said excitedly. “Alexandre, could you please walk up and down the length of this room?”

Enjolras did so, feeling very foolish.

“He could stand to lose a little weight, too,” the man said.

Enjolras scowled.

“There!” Lucas said suddenly. “That’s perfect. See?”

The other man looked at him for a moment and finally said “One year exclusive contract. Thirty-five percent commission. That’s my only offer.”

“Thirty-fi—fine,” Lucas said. “I’ll get the paperwork together.” He left for another room.

“I don’t believe I introduced myself,” the balding man said, extending his hand. “Grégoire Dagenais.”

He shook it reluctantly. “Alexandre Enjolras.”

“Well, Alex—may I call you Alex? I won’t conceal the nature of the situation from you. This company is on the way out. We’re nearly bankrupt. It’d take some kind of miracle to save it.” He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “I guess you get to be pretty cynical after being in this industry so long. Lucas seems to have lot of faith in you. Which is a dangerous thing.”

Enjolras said nothing.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, take my advice: Get out. I’m getting out as soon as this year is over. It’s a nasty industry.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Enjolras said honestly.

“It’s like that, is it? Parents kick you out?”

“No, I’m—displaced,” he said.

“Then go back to where you came from. It’s not worth it.”

“I can’t.”

He shrugged. “Then let’s hope Lucas’s faith isn’t misplaced.”

Lucas returned with a stack of papers. “Don’t worry about all this official stuff, I’ll get it sorted out.”

Out of habit, Enjolras read the entire contract carefully, though he found he was unable to understand a lot of it. “So people pay me to have my likeness taken.”

“Correct.”

“And you, the agency, take thirty-five percent of that?”

“Yes, that’s, uh—it’s pretty standard.”

With no small amount of apprehension, Enjolras signed the contract.

“Excellent,” said Lucas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for months so I'm just gonna publish it. sorry for any glaring mistakes. I've literally changed as a person since beginning this fic but the show must go on!


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